


Lush

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4431830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindir preps Bard to meet the lord of Rivendell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lush

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Even moved to Dale, with old, hardy structures, King Thranduil’s help and Erebor’s wealth, Bard has nothing at home that compares to this. His usual baths are utilitarian, meant to wipe the sores and muck away and little else. Yet here he lounges back, his spine flush against a servant’s stomach, creamy thighs pressed to either side of him. The water, ever-warm, laps gently at his chest. It’s clear, glistening with the light of the fallen sun, filtering in through the balcony not far away. Everything of Imladris is _beautiful_ , soft and comfortable. This bath is no different.

But even better than the water’s kiss is the man behind him. Lindir’s long fingers run through Bard’s hair, massaging in the white, bubbling ends of soap, occasionally straying down his jaw but staying clear of his eyes, though he’s been promised it doesn’t sting. It’s a wonderful, tantalizing feeling. He’s used to hard work and ragged travel, but now he’s rewarded for his long journey with elegant attention. Lindir scoops small puddles of water to pour over Bard’s hair, combing it free, and he wonders absently if there’s any time to put in braids that would make Sigrid proud. 

As Lindir gathers the dark strands back along Bard’s neck, Bard asks idly, “Do you bathe all Imladris’ guests?” He can almost hear Lindir’s teasing smile at the way he pronounces the name—apparently, he does it wrong, and could stick to Rivendell, but he enjoys _trying_.

Lindir smoothly replies, “I wish to present my lord with only the best.” Evasive, but alluring. “It is my duty to see that everyone who should sit at my lord’s table is well groomed and taken care off.” Indeed, he’s pampered Bard well. Bard was greeted warmly at his arrival, given grand quarters larger than his former Laketown home, brought excellent food and drink, and now washed with care. The feeling of Lindir’s lithe, velvet-soft body behind him is more intoxicating than the wine that still sits on his table. Lindir’s legs are pale, thin, and hairless around his own, sun-kissed, muscular, and downy. He can’t feel Lindir’s hair, likely draped over the back of the tub to keep dry. Lindir’s touches are skilled and tempting, but too fleeting. Elves are magnificent creatures. 

And Bard is a weak man, who can’t help but tease, “Does that care apply even to a gaggle of dwarves?”

The hands in Bard’s hair still momentarily. Bard’s revealed that he knows more than Lindir thought. After a moment, Lindir makes a soft tsking sound and murmurs, “Such crude humour is unbecoming.” Bard laughs, and even that sounds cruder, more coarse and weather-beaten than Lindir’s musical tones.

Bit by bit, Lindir rinses out Bard’s hair, until he can reach back to run his palm down his scalp and come away clear of suds. Lindir’s delicate hands instead splay across Bard’s broad shoulders, as though readying to massage them, or merely wetting them. It’s the whisper of a promise that Bard is a little too hungry to resist. 

He turns slowly out of Lindir’s grasp. The tub is long and narrow, but he manages to turn himself between Lindir’s legs. There’s no room to stay sideways, so he has to face Lindir completely, his knees tucking beneath Lindir’s legs, and Lindir holds them open for him, eyeing Bard with mild amusement and the quirk of a smile. He tilts his head just so, as though curious, and one hand dusts over Bard’s collarbone, down to tug once at the dark hair of his chest. Lindir is a _gorgeous_ thing, and Bard allows those small touches, using them for more time to ogle the bare expanse before him.

Finally, he licks his lips and asks, “What other services do you provide for the ‘care’ of your guests?”

Lindir doesn’t quite look up at him, instead eyeing his chest, knuckles drawing smoothly across it. Lightly, Lindir muses, “What is your title again?”

Somehow, Bard manages to hold back his snort. If he wanted this less, he might say nothing; he feels like no great lord and likely never will. But in truth, he can at least say, “Master of Dale.”

Lindir’s smile grows. His dark eyes lift back to Bard’s, and he tilts slightly forward, body arching, smaller than Bard but tall and strong, in his own way. With his long, brown hair tumbling down his shoulders, Lindir slips his hands over Bard’s shoulders, clasping around the nape of Bard’s neck. He purrs sweetly, “For one such as you, whatever you may wish.”

Grinning, Bard admits, “I was hoping you’d say that,” and leans forward for a kiss.


End file.
